sketched of Mother Superior was worth a couple of hours scrubbing

bathrooms.

If it hadn't been for Marianne, she might have run away. Though where

she would have run, she hadn't a clue.

There was really only one place she wanted to go, and that was to her

father. And he would have shipped her right back.

It wasn't fair. She was nearly thirteen, nearly a real teenager, and

she was stuck in this antiquated school conjugating verbs, reciting

catechism, and dissecting frogs. Gross.

It wasn't that she hated the nuns. Well, she admitted, perhaps she did

hate Sister Immaculate. The Warden. But who wouldn't hate someone with

a pruny mouth, a wart on her chin, and a fondness for giving young girls

extra ch.o.r.es for the teeniest infractions?

But Dad had only been amused when she'd told him about Sister

Immaculate.

She missed him; she missed all of them.

She wanted to go home. But she wasn't sure where home would be. Often

she thought about the house in London, the castle where she had been so

happy for such a short time. She thought about Bev and hated it that

her father never spoke of her. Even though they had never divorced,

Emma thought. Some of the girls at school had parents that were

divorced, but you weren't supposed to talk about it.

She still thought of Daffen, her sweet little brother. Sometimes she

could barely remember how he had looked, how he had sounded. But when

she dreamed of him, his face, his voice, were as clear as life.

She remembered almost nothing about the night he had died. Nuns tended

to drum such pagan nonsense as monsters out of young girls' heads. But

again, if she dreamed of that night, as she did when she was ill or

upset, she remembered the terror of walking down the dark hall, the

sounds all around, the dark monsters holding Darren as he cried and

struggled. She remembered falling.

And when she awoke, she would remember nothing at all.

Marianne came through the door in an exaggerated stagger. She held out

her hands. "Ruined." She dropped backward onto her bed. "What French

count would want to kiss them now?"

"Rough going?" Emma asked, struggling not to grin.

"Five bathrooms. Disgusting. Ugh. When I get out of this joint, I'm

going to have a housekeeper for my housekeeper." She rolled over on her

stomach, crossing her ankles in the air. Emma only smiled, enjoying the

sound of Marianne's brisk American voice. "I heard Mary Jane

Witherspoon talking to Teresa O'Malley. She's going to do it with her

boyfriend when she goes home this summer."

"Who?"

"I dunno. His name's Chuck or Huck or something."

"No, I mean Mary Jane or Teresa?"

"Mary Jane, you dork. She's sixteen and built."

Emma frowned down at her own flat chest. She wondered if she'd have

b.o.o.bs to speak of when she hit sixteen. And if she'd have a boyfriend

to do it with.

"What if she gets pregnant like Susan did last spring?"